Upwelling
by yadon
Summary: Finally, Dylas decided he'd had enough of being made a fool of. Especially by an even bigger fool in Doug. [Doug/Dylas pre-slash; rated T for language]


Where the hell was that idiot dwarf?

Well, there were a lot of likely reasons as to why Doug had yet to show up at Keeno Lake.

That, despite it being past three o'clock, he was still asleep. Or, alternately, he'd gorged himself on so much rice that he was sitting faceplanted in a bowl of porridge, in a food coma.

But it wasn't as if Dylas _cared_ that Doug wasn't here yet. Having Doug around to gripe about how lame and unexciting fishing was—he couldn't think of a much easier way to ruin the fine afternoon he was having, alone with his trusty rod and the pail full of salmon he'd caught so far.

He just _wondered_ (which was way different than actually caring), because Doug had been the one who'd come rushing into the restaurant yesterday, right up to Dylas when he was in the midst of bussing clear a table after the girls had stopped by for lunch.

"Yo, carrot-breath, better meet me at Keeno Lake tomorrow at two. And bring your fishing pole... or else!"

Heh, Doug just set himself up so often, acting and talking before thinking about either (if he ever even thought at all). "What, you volunteering as bait now, shrimp?"

"Just be there! Sheesh!"

Smirking, Dylas picked up the half-eaten jam roll from Xiao Pai's plate and chucked it at Doug, knowing the dwarf's aversion to all things bread.

"Gyah!" Doug stumbled to the side, dodging the roll, then made an ungainly exit from the restaurant.

And that was the last time Dylas had seen him. Almost a full day without being bugged by that twerp.

He should have been happy— _thrilled—_ about it. But that loser put so much effort into annoying the piss out of Dylas (since he sure as hell didn't put forth any effort into his job at the general store), it somehow felt so very _wrong_ that he was still absent.

As the minutes ticked by into hours, the salmon in Dylas's pail piled up... and that sense of _wrong_ ness did too. Finally, Dylas decided he'd had enough of being made a fool of. Especially by an even bigger fool in Doug.

* * *

The general store's front door was locked—odd for this early in the evening. Even though they were closed for business at this time, Blossom still kept the door unlocked for anyone—usually that Lest kid—who might wander in for a chat.

Dylas hammered his fist against the door. "Doug! Get your lazy ass up!"

Still no answer.

He beat on the door again, and opened his mouth to hurl more threats Doug's way, but the vibration from the door caused his fishing rod, which was propped against the wall, to tip over.

" _Dammit_!..." He checked it over for damage. Of course, there wasn't the slightest nick; he was just so overprotective of it.

Sighing, Dylas lifted the bucket of fish he'd collected with his other hand.

If he didn't respect Blossom so much, he'd have considered slipping the largest, smelliest salmon he'd caught under the door, so Doug would have a nice aroma to greet him when he came downstairs the next morning.

But, as it was, Dylas _did_ respect Blossom, and right now he was really craving slicing that salmon up into some delicious sashimi.

That, and Doug wasn't even in the store. But that wasn't Dylas's problem—again, he was just _noticing_ , that's all. He'd cross paths with that jerk soon enough, what did it matter he couldn't rail into him _now_?

It didn't.

 _Really_ , it didn't.

As Dylas hurried along up the path to the restaurant, he glimpsed the establishment's door flapping back-and-forth; he'd just missed whoever'd run in.

Using his foot to catch the corner of the door mid-swing, he slipped in and was met with the flashing silver of a longsword and a primal "HYAHHH!" from the town's Dragon Knight, startling him into dropping his bucket of fish with a loud _clang_! Lucky for him, said knight had honed discipline, and the blade was redirected from Dylas's face to decapitating Porcoline's precious potted plant and becoming lodged in the door's sturdy frame.

" _Oh_! It's only you, Dylas."

"Um, hello to you too." As Forte removed her sword, Dylas surveyed the near-empty restaurant. No patrons at the moment, only his... well, the closest thing to friends he had: Arthur at a dining table, for once actually _eating_ (though still with an open ledger at his place in front of him), and Margaret sitting by her beloved piano, tuning the strings of her lute.

Or, it's what they _had_ been doing, until both Forte and Dylas had come bursting in. Now both of them were frozen in place, staring wide-eyed, open-mouthed, looking almost ( _almost_!) dumber than Doug constantly did.

Dylas could see now Forte's face was red from exertion, her armor marked with the dents and dings of a heated battle.

"My apologies, I thought you might be... someone else." Forte exhaled a heavy sigh, and turned to address the others. "I regret to inform you all that tonight, Selphia was attacked."

Arthur and Margaret murmured in various levels of disbelief, but Dylas said nothing. _But Ven was... better. Lest had brought back the Rune Spheres. How could this happen...?_ Forte answered Dylas's question while he was in the midst of forming it.

"A soldier from the Sechs Empire approached me and Doug. Thankfully, Lest and I managed to fend him off, however..." Forte's gaze briefly singled out Dylas. "The soldier went after Blossom, and Doug... defended her."

 _Doug_? Dylas's ears pricked up, and before he could ask just what the hell _Doug_ was doing in the middle of it all, Margaret cut in.

"Where is he?!"

"Lest? I believe he's speaking with Lady Ventuswill. Meg, I understand you're worried, but please, wait until tomorrow, at least, to talk to him about this. It's been a very trying ordeal for all of us. " Forte turned to look solely at Arthur. "I've already relayed the events of tonight to Volkanon, and he thought it prudent that I seek your council in the matter, Arthur—and I agree wholeheartedly."

"Yes... yes, you're most certainly right. My office, Forte." Arthur's sandwich lay forgotten as he closed and picked up his ledger, a weak smile on his face. "Looks like we're in for a long night."

"I'll... I'll go and find Porco, have him whip you up something!" Dylas stepped aside and let Margaret past him, out the front door to search for Porcoline.

Arthur, the prince of Norad; Forte, the Dragon Knight; Margaret, the all-but-in-label-only girlfriend of the town's hero—a fitting trio of sidekicks for Lest.

And here he was standing around like a dumbass, a feeling not unfamiliar for Dylas—it'd been his entire _life_ before Ven had become part of it, before he'd given it up for her. But even during those days "locked" in the hut, he'd known he'd at least _eventually_ be able to do something. Now, all he felt was a terrible uselessness—that, what _could_ he do to help? What was even going on?

"Hey!" Dylas called before Forte could get too far. The knight turned and gave a curious "hm?", insinuating she may have forgotten Dylas was even present. "What about that brainless good-for-nothing dwarf? Where the hell is _he?_ "

"Blossom escorted him to the clinic; I assume he's still there."

There was a first for everything: Dylas carelessly tossed his rod down on the closest table, then bolted out the door.

* * *

Feet pounding along the stone street, thoughts pounding through his mind.

 _What was Doug's stupid ass doing confronting a Sechs soldier in the first place?_

Forte was a knight, and Lest was an Earthmate, so their presence went unquestioned. But _Doug_?

He'd likely just answered it himself: that Doug was nothing but a reckless moron, trying to one-up Lest at every opportunity, as had been evident by the cold shoulder the dumb dwarf had taken to given someone Dylas considered—well, not a friend, but more than an acquaintance, with how often Lest visited everyone (specifically Margaret) at the restaurant.

But even worse, in doing so, Doug had dragged Blossom into it. Dylas couldn't imagine ever doing the same thing to Porcoline, who'd be so unconditionally accommodating to him. Of course, Doug's pea-sized brain wasn't able to grasp any emotions or concepts beyond _hunger_ or _competition,_ so really, Dylas knew he was wasting time attempting to understand just _why._

He probably wasn't even hurt that bad—a bruised ego, or a scraped knee at most, and was pouring on the melodramatics simply for attention.

Shoving the door open, he was greeted by a shocked "Dylas!" from Nancy. He rushed to the back, where Blossom's hunched form standing beside the bed confirmed what Forte had told him.

"Oh my! Dylas!"

"Hunnnh..?!" Doug's eyes fluttered—or, sort of did. Dylas immediately noticed how one of them was swollen shut.

" _Shit_..." Dylas whispered, but loud enough in the stark silence for both Blossom and Doug to hear. He couldn't help it, cursing, when he was around Doug—even, it seemed, when it wasn't directed _at_ the pint-sized dipshit.

He also couldn't help right now but to really... _examine_ Doug's state. Where he always saw a vertically-challenged, flaming-haired pest, he saw... well, a vertically-challenged, flaming-haired pest.

That was in a great deal of pain, both on the surface and, judging by his grimace and the tracks of dried tears on his cheeks. His sweaty hair was plastered to his forehead, the same red as the scratches on his face...

Dylas pulled his gaze over to Blossom. The elderly shopkeeper appeared as worried as Dylas had ever seen her in his short time in Selphia, but strong despite it.

"Forte told us a Sechs soldier attacked," he said. (As opposed to saying, "Heard you got your ass beat by the Sechs," which is what had been ready to come out of his mouth, and would have if not for Blossom's presence.)

"Granny..." Doug's voice was even more garbled than when he was busy stuffing his fat mouth with risotto.

"It's true. Doug protected me from that scoundrel. Imagine, them telling him all those foul lies!"

 _Lies_?! What was Blossom going on about?

"Gr-Granny..." Doug whined. Typical.

"Thank goodness for Forte and Lest. I heard they took care of that rapscallion for good—I _do_ hope they're alright."

"Yeah, Forte seemed fine. Guess Lest is too. I mean, he's talkin' to Ven... er, Ventuswill about all this."

"Doug'll be fine, too." Dr. Jones approached the three of them, clipboard cradled in one arm, a vial filled with a fizzy-looking purple liquid in the other hand. "He just needs some rest and one last dose of this. Here you go, drink up."

Doug lifted his neck up enough to swallow a sip from the vial being held in front of him, his face squinching up as he swallowed it. "Guh... rosss..."

"It's why he's so drowsy, why his speech is so slurred," Jones explained. "This is the most potent analgesic—painkiller, that is, that we stock. It should wear off soon, though."

"Yeah?" Dylas raised an eyebrow, unable to keep a smirk from curling the corners of his lips as he looked back at Doug, who had a little dribble of purple medicine on his chin. "I dunno, he always sounds this dopey to me."

"Sh-Shut... up." Doug's eyes, as hazy as they were, fixed onto Dylas. "Stupid... n-nag."

" _I'm_ stupid? Who's the one laying in a hospital bed?"

"I s-said...!" Bending his elbows beneath him, Doug tried to push himself into a sitting position, all the better to snap back at Dylas. And he failed miserably, collapsing back down onto the bed.

"Doug!" Blossom inched closer to him, as if that were possible, reaching her frail arms out to steady him.

As Dylas watched Doug struggle, a sharp, uneasy warmth pressed behind his ribs, like he'd swallowed a too-huge gulp of Hot Juice.

The hot sensation inside him crept up his neck, all over his face as he saw Doug clutch at his side while allowing Blossom to assist him with maneuvering onto his side, into a sleeping position.

Geez, even if Doug was being a drama queen —which, maybe just this once, he wasn't—Dylas ought to at least _try_ to tone it down in front of Blossom, 'cause Doug sure as hell wouldn't.

"...Uhm... well..." Dylas cleared his throat, his ears twitching in annoyance—mostly at himself, that he couldn't just bother to leave without getting the last word in. "Blossom, I'm glad for your sake that Doug's not dead."

Doug grunted, acknowledging he'd heard Dylas.

Blossom shuffled over to Dylas, reaching out to gently squeeze his elbow. "I'm glad too."

"Ohhhh..." Doug moaned. " _Barf_ , c-cut... out..."

Dylas jerked his arm away from Blossom, disbelieving (and yet not) that Doug would so rudely interrupt the moment. "'Barf' yourself, you worthless imp."

This was pointless; there was no way he was going to be able to have a conversation of any kind with Doug, let alone a civil one, while he was still loaded full of drugs.

Seriously, there was _no reason_ for Dylas to stick around if he couldn't get any answers. It wasn't like he really cared about how badly Doug was injured. The bastard had been asking for it anyway, with how reckless and foolish he always was, and it made Dylas _more_ incensed to see Blossom here fretting over him—and for what? Doug wasn't going to pay her any consideration, because that was just how damn selfish he was.

And _that_ outright rudeness— _that_ was where the frustration storming inside Dylas was coming from. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more.

"I'm outta here," was all Dylas said as Doug continued to whimper and groan. And then he promptly followed through, double-timing it out of the clinic and not breaking his pace until he was safe in the confines of the restaurant and his room.

Away from Doug, and all the danger he so easily attracted.

* * *

Invasion by the Sechs Empire or no, Porcoline was a force that would not be stopped, not with White Day approaching. After shaking Dylas awake at the crack of dawn, causing Dylas to shout and swear loud enough to wake Arthur up as well, Porco led the two groggy young men to the kitchen to begin the day-long task of baking batch after batch of cookies.

After they'd retrieved all the needed tools and ingredients from their respective homes, Arthur managed to weasel his way out of preparations, albeit with a more-than-viable excuse: he hadn't gone to bed until around 4 AM, due to a long night filled with research and correspondence, of talking with Forte and Lest about how to proceed.

(And also a brief swing by the clinic, to check in on Doug. "Good for you," Dylas had responded, when Arthur had spared him a glance intended to be meaningful).

Porco obliged to Arthur's request only after forcing a quick breakfast on the Prince of Norad, and Dylas suspected it wouldn't be until early afternoon—right around when cookie-baking finished—that his housemate made another appearance.

For the first time in the two days since the attack, Dylas's thoughts retreated from the whole predicament. As was typically the case when it came to cooking, he grew so concentrated on the recipe, in hoping he could make it up to Porcoline's standards, that everything else crowding his mind temporarily vanished.

It was the opposite of fishing, in a way, which he used as time to collect and organize all his rampant thoughts.

But man, _that_ hadn't worked in the least. For all the hours he whiled away the past two days, just himself and his rod and reel, he never got very far—there was still a huge gap preventing him from making sense of it all.

With the restaurant being ground zero for gossip, and the person who knew more about Norad than anyone only a room away, Dylas had expected to learn everything about what had transpired that night.

But he still didn't know much more than what Forte had initially told him.

Which, really, wasn't much. The only thing left _to_ know was Doug's involvement. But that blank space ate at him nonstop, especially since he kept coming back to what Blossom had uttered back at the clinic.

 _Lies_.

There _had_ to be others who knew the truth—others who were close to him, no less, like Venti or Lest or Arthur.

But Dylas couldn't bring himself to ask them, _any_ of them. Partly because there was a lot to put into words, and he was just so _awful_ with words, and...

Loathe as he was to admit it, he didn't want to hear about it from anyone other than Doug, and the only reason as to why, the could figure, was that he _deserved_ to hear the truth from Doug. Because... because—well, why shouldn't he?! As far as he was aware, he'd always been upfront and _completely_ honest to that pathetic runt. Never once bullshitted him about anything!

(Excluding the box of onigiri he'd left at the store a couple weeks ago, along with an unsigned 'happy birthday' note. But that was different! Margaret had foisted it on him, saying she'd found the box stashed in a bookshelf, and wanted to get rid of it before Porco scarfed it down. _She'd_ been the one who'd smiled and said "Why don't you give it to Doug?" It wasn't Dylas's fault that the idiot's birthday was coming up—or that he knew, with Doug's loud mouth telling everyone he'd seen in the previous days!)

 _The point was_ , if Doug didn't 'fess up, Dylas was going to beat the truth out of him!

That's why it gave Dylas such great satisfaction envisioning Doug's infuriating grin while pummeling and rolling the air out of lump after doughy lump.

"Dylas!" Porcoline entered the kitchen just seconds after the oven's timer went off for the fifth or sixth batch of cookies.

" _What_?!" Dylas blew a breath upward, ruffling a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. He hadn't meant to snap at Porco, but so far today his boss had been in and out of the kitchen give-or-take every half hour, to "test" some of the cookies being baked. And Dylas, up to his elbows in sugar and flour and sprinkles, had very little success in preventing him from doing so—it was more than a little irritating.

"Ohoo, don't be so cross! It's time for lunch! Any requests from my special little helper?"

At first Dylas thought that this was just Porco-being-Porco, where _every_ hour was meal time. But one glance at the clock proved it was, in fact, almost noon.

"Hmph, make whatever." Dylas at least trusted Porco wouldn't take that to mean make something he couldn't stand, but he really didn't care right now. It wasn't like he had much of an appetite at the moment, with how crummy the past few days had left him feeling.

As Porco threw together a lunch for him, Dylas separated the cookies into little plastic baggies, tying them up with a red ribbon. Really, it was more to protect his creations from being gobbled up than actually being _helpful,_ but Porco praised him for it all the same.

"Eat up!" A plate of fried veggies was slid into an empty spot on the counter, just as Dylas had finished washing his hands and arms of all the residue coating them.

Not his favorite but at least it smelled good, helped to fight off the cloying cinnamon scent filling ever inch of the kitchen.

"Hey, Porcoline? Would you... mind if I take a break from baking for a bit? Not... Not real long, but just..." He raked his fork through the shredded veggies. "Maybe I could go around town. Y'know, see if anyone wants to order cookies from you."

"Ooo, I already asked Meggy to do that!~ It's important to keep her busy right now, hm?"

Dylas sighed. "Yeah... you're right."

And Porco _was_ right. Keeping Margaret occupied was a smart move, so she didn't spend all her time freaking out over Forte and Lest and pretty much Selphia as a whole.

Also, to be fair, Margaret would likely have more success in taking cookie orders than he ever would. Him asking a couple of long-lingering travelers last week, "So are you gonna get dessert or sit 'round here taking up space?" might have had something to do with Porcoline's decision.

"But if you want to cut out early, you can. You've been such a big help already! Make sure you don't forget your cookies!"

"...What?" Dylas's fork was halfway to his mouth, and he set it down immediately. "The hell do I need those for?"

Porco let out a whine that rivaled Doug's. "You mean you're not even going to give _moi_ cookies tomorrow?"

"I... well, then just keep them!" It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for Porco's hospitality, but he could _not_ picture himself saying as much as he handed a cookie to his boss. Wouldn't it be easier for Porco to keep the cookies here for himself, instead of making Dylas go through the whole _production_ of "here's a symbol of my appreciation"?

"But what about Meggy, hm? And Arthur and Lest and D—"

"Give me the damn cookies." Dylas cut Porco off before he could get out the final name in that sequence, snatching up the closest baggie.

* * *

White Day came and went.

Not that Dylas had any previous White Days to compare it to, but he guessed that ones in the past had been far less subdued than this one. With the undercurrent of worry rippling through the town, there was a palpable sort of unease surrounding all the well-wishes and cookie-crumb edged smiles.

Still, Dylas played his part, and handed out his supply of cookies, and despite knowing that he wasn't fond of sweets, the recipients returned the favor with cookies of their own.

At first it was difficult to set aside the fact that these were _all_ cookies he helped bake, so he could've just kept the damn things. But it got easier throughout the day, and was strangely satisfying when he realized that these people who had come to resemble a family of sorts to him—they weren't smiling because they'd been given another cookie to add to their hoard.

They were glad Dylas was the one giving it to them.

Which didn't make a hell of a lot of sense, because with each cookie he gave, all he could stammer out was some variant of "Thanks for... you know, everything." A statement both incredibly lame and not at all indicative of the depth of his gratitude, but no one seemed to mind.

If he could have found the words—and it was so hard over the past couple days, more than ever before—it might have emotionally depleted him to express it fully, for how thankful he was for them. For all of them.

Porcoline for providing him a home and a job, no questions asked. Arthur, for being so friendly and tolerant of him, when as a prince he had no reason to even acknowledge someone like Dylas. Margaret, and her seemingly intrinsic ability to know when Dylas needed to be scolded, or handled gently, or just left alone completely.

And Lest. Who'd been so irritating at first, since Dylas couldn't comprehend who would want to be friends with him because... well, just because. But Lest had freed him, had done so because of faith in Ven, and that in and of itself—even if he _hadn't_ ever grown to like Lest, there was no way Dylas couldn't respect him. He was forever indebted to Lest for what he'd done, and now, with those Sechs bastards hellbent on stealing the Rune Spheres, was continuing to do.

Before Dylas knew it, he was up to his nose in cookies. He kept the ones he'd received in a separate container; he'd probably "accidentally" leave them behind in the kitchen some night soon, and Porco would end up "accidentally" eating them. As for the ones he'd originally taken, to hand out—

There was still one left.

But he wouldn't have _any_ left, if Leon would've just accepted it!

Dylas had been hanging outside the clinic—that's where he heard the gibelio were biting—fishing pole in one hand and baggie in the other. His fellow Guardian had wandered by, although Dylas knew Leon well enough to be sure it was hardly _wandering_.

Leon meant to be there, and he meant for that _moment_ , where their eyes met, Leon's narrowing and Dylas's widening.

And he sure damn well meant it when he'd commented how _sweet_ it was that Dylas was waiting.

Waiting for what?!

Leon only gave him his trademark mischievous smirk half-hidden by his fan, and Dylas had tried to counter the embarrassment that had bloomed inside him by telling Leon "Thanks for... you know!... here!" and shoving the baggie, with its one lone cookie, at him.

And Leon had laughed that jackal-like laugh, and refused. He wasn't going to take it when it was meant for someone else.

Which was not true. That's why it was currently back in the baggie, stuffed in his jacket pocket and waiting to be thrown away. Which he'd do! Soon! He just... was too lazy right now.

And, well, the fact that he was back at Keeno Lake, fishing, with no means of disposing of it. Sure, he could throw it on the ground and hope for some chipsqueak to eat it, but there was no guarantee—except the guarantee of Margaret finding out some way, _somehow_ that he'd littered. In which case, he'd rather just down a bottle of Object X; it'd be a less painful punishment.

"Yo! Ponyboy!"

Speaking of painful...

Dylas yanked his line in, despite having been close to hooking a huge rainbow trout. He didn't even try to conceal his shock when he turned, that _Doug_ was here— _here_ and not still laying in the clinic. All he could manage in reply was a stiff "Hey..."

"Hay is for horses... oh wait." Doug started laughing at his own little joke, which quickly transformed into a wince. Probably his ribs. Served him right.

Dylas scowled. "The hell do you want, garden gnome? Oh, and way to finally show up."

"Yeah, well, excuse me for trying to help Lest out and protect this town from those Sechs jerkoffs. Sorry I can't sit around on my useless horse ass and fish all day, like you."

Everything went redder than Doug's hair, for the anger erupting within Dylas. He threw his pole down (shit, this could _not_ become a habit; Doug would owe him if he damaged it) and in three quick strides, and an even quicker two-fisted grab, he had Doug by the shirt collar and slammed against the nearest giant mushroom.

"I never thought I'd say this, but you better start talkin'. _Now_. The truth." Dylas could barely get the words out, how tightly clenched his jaw was. He exhaled furiously through his nose.

Like an enraged stallion.

Doug kicked, struggling to free himself. "What the hell! Let go of me! Help! Mad horse on the loose!" Continuing to flail, Doug's boot struck Dylas's knee violently, and Dylas released him. But he swiftly planted both hands on the mushroom's thick stalk, on either side of Doug, boxing him in and preventing any escape.

"Doug, I swear, you will _wish_ that Sechs soldier had killed you if you don't answer me right fucking now."

Doug lifted his head, glaring up at Dylas defiantly. "Maybe there isn't anything to tell you, ever think of that? "

Dylas displaced his ire for a moment, to draw on what he knew was Doug's weakness. "So what Blossom said at the clinic, that was just some senile old woman running her mouth? Didn't mean anything by it when she said the soldier was spreading lies about you? Guess I'll have to have a word with her 'bout making sure she's taking Intelligencer daily, if she's gonna just spout off shit like that."

"Hey, don't you even think about going near Granny, gelding!"

"Then tell me what happened!"

"It doesn't _matter_ what happened, now get out of my way and—"

"Yes it does!" Dylas's voice rose from loud to a shout. "You could have been _killed_!"

"At least I would've been with my tribe!"

The words hit Dylas like a punch, so hard that he backed away. Gave Doug room as the dwarf slid to the ground, knees bending up and curling himself even smaller.

"Doug...?" Dylas didn't mean for it to come out as a question. But this was just standard Doug interaction, for him, to always end up confused by everything Doug said and did.

"Man, just..." He stared up at Dylas, his eyes rimmed with tears. "Just...! I fell for the Sechs and their stupid lies. I believed 'em when they said Ventuswill killed my tribe, and let them use me against her and Selphia, because I'm a fucking dumbass, okay? Is that what you wanna hear? Is that enough truth for ya, huh?"

Dylas didn't know what to say. He rarely did, but this was different. It was always so tough to find the right words, but in this instance, he wasn't sure there actually _were_ any.

Which, somehow his mouth didn't get the memo, because he started to trip out a reply. "Yeah... but you... why...? You can't be assed to listen to Blossom when she tells you to stock the shelves but you listened to all the crap they spewed? You didn't think about how it'd probably be a suicide mission?!"

"I don't know, Dylas! You're gonna stand there and judge me for doin' all this? My whole family had just been killed, so I wasn't really thinkin' straight! What the hell else was I gonna do, and where was I gonna go?" Doug's arms were resting crossed over his knees, and his face dropped forward upon them, muffling his words as he continued. "Geez, I thought if anyone would understand wanting to sacrifice themselves, it'd be you, but yeah, I guess I'm just a dumbass, right?"

Dylas didn't bother pointing out Doug was repeating himself. Nor did he point out that Doug didn't know everything that had led up to Dylas's acceptance of becoming a Guardian; no one did, and it was more complicated than just "wanting to help".

Carefully, Dylas lowered to sit down across from Doug, and refrained from making a comment about getting on his level. Seeing Doug getting his ass handed to him partly because he was an impulsive little smart-ass, but mostly because he was protecting Blossom, was one thing. But it was more than that. He'd been suffering, long before he'd ended up in the Tiny Bandage Clinic.

And Dylas... he couldn't stand it. He knew what it was like to ache so terribly, so deeply, and he supposed it'd be even stronger, more concentrated if he were some pint-sized dwarf.

"I... I guess I understand. Wanting to... help. Do something. For someone else." He slowly reached out a hand to Doug's elbow, causing Doug to finally lift his head and look at him. "It doesn't make you a dumbass. I mean, you _are_ one, but not because of that."

"Yeah." Doug let out a short, wet laugh. "Sounds about right."

"Yeah..." Dylas dropped his hand away, wondering why it felt so warm when the chill of the approaching Winter was in the air.

There was a time and place for Doug to talk more about this—and probably, a better person than him, Dylas thought with a twang of disappointment. Then again, if Doug was looking for brutal honesty, Dylas was more than happy to provide him with that.

Weirdly, it seemed that, if anything, Doug had been _comforted_. Which Dylas had never set out to do, couldn't even if he'd wanted to. And yet... here Doug was, calming down. His crying subsided, his breathing evened out and they sat in a strangely _nice_ silence for a few minutes. Dylas was remiss to break through the quiet—how often would this ever happen, that they were in each other's company without being at each other's throats?—but he really did need to know...

"So what did you want? When you were yelling at me to meet you here."

"Wha...?! Oh, yeah." Doug ran his sleeve under his nose, dragging away a trail of snot. Sheesh, and he probably wouldn't wash it anytime soon, either. "Uh, I was gonna brag about this silver ore that I found, that's all. 'Cause I know you've been trying to find some for your fishing rod. But now I have some, and you don't." He puffed up proudly, eyes closed and smiling like he'd just achieved some personal nirvana.

"What d'you mean that you 'found'? Lest was late for dinner with Margaret last week, said it was because he had to track you down and deliver some ore to you."

"Gggh!" Doug instantly deflated, averted his gaze from Dylas and looking like he may just start crying again, albeit from mortification this time. "Well! I'll probably never really use it. You can stop by the store and get it sometime. But it's fair game, so if Lest wants it first, it's all his. Or you guys can fight for it, whatever."

"Great, I'll see if he wants to compete for it during the next fishing contest." And Dylas meant it, knowing Lest would be game if they raised the stakes a bit with a bet just between the two of them. The topic of festivals reminded him. "Oh, and you missed White Day, y'know."

"Yeah, duh. But Granny baked a whole extra batch of cookies for me when I got home this morning. Vishnal left me bag of 'em too, I guess, but I thought they were a bunch of fuckin' Buffamoo turds so I threw them away. Oh, and Arthur and Lest came to see me just before I came here, bribed some info out of me about the Sechs with a few cookies."

Dylas rolled his eyes. He doubted it'd unfolded like that, and that Doug had just _thought_ he was being sneaky, trying to appeal for cookies by withholding information he would have readily volunteered regardless. And Arthur and Lest... they would have given Doug their White Day cookies anyway, because that's just the kind of guys they were.

Doug was still rambling on. Shocker. "—when they even had time to bake 'em, but they were pretty damn good!"

Heh. "They the ones this big?" Dylas formed a circle with curved fingers, a little smaller than an orange. "With cinnamon sprinkles?"

"Yeah! And they were all soft and crumbly, just how I like 'em." Doug grinned, and Dylas felt his own mouth lifting in a small smile.

"You're welcome."

Dylas could have told Doug that _he_ was a spy for the Sechs Empire, for how incredulous Doug became. "Wh—! What are you talkin' about?"

"I baked those cookies."

"No you didn't! Quit lyin', you flea-bitten nag!"

"I'm not lying!" Urgh, only Doug would make an argument out of where his White Day cookies had come from. Couldn't he just say 'thanks' for once in his unfortunate life? "We sold a whole bunch of cookies from the restaurant for the holiday. Porco wants to use the money to maybe bring Margaret's sister here for a visit, or somethin'. And I baked most of them."

"Wh-what?! I don't believe you! Nope, no way!"

"Dammit, Doug!" Dylas reached into his pocket, and retrieved the cookie in its baggie. He flipped it over to Doug, where it slid down his bent knees and onto his lap.

Doug picked it up, studying it like he'd never seen a damn cookie before in his life.

"I had an extra one; Leon wouldn't take it," Dylas explained. "So I... well, I was gonna throw it in the garbage, but letting you have it is basically the same thing, so... take it!"

Doug blinked, still turning the bagged cookie over in his hand. "Ugh, did you _make_ this?!"

"I just told you I fucking did!"

"Well, it probably sucks." Doug opened the baggie, bringing the cookie out and close to his nose. He gave a great sniff. "Yeah, you definitely made this. It smells like fish guts, just like you."

"Then don't eat it. Stick it up your ass for all I care. You could stand not to eat so much anyway, fatty."

"If you want some, just say so!" Doug broke the cookie in half, and shoved the bigger half (hah, of course) towards Dylas, waving it enticingly like one would a carrot to a horse. "Happy White Day, swayback."

Dylas didn't take the cookie, only stared disbelievingly.

" _What_?!" Doug all but shouted.

"For White Day, you give me _half_ of a two-day old cookie that _someone else_ baked? That's a low, even for you."

"Isn't White Day supposed to be us expressing how much we appreciate others? If that's the case, then it's perfect."

He had a point there.

"I don't even like cookies, pebble-brain." Dylas sighed and took the cookie, nibbling off a small bite.

"Well, I don't like you _or_ your cookies," Doug said with his mouth full, spittling crumbs everywhere.

Doug had such a way of ruining _everything_ : White Day, the general store's profit, the overall welfare of the town.

Dylas took another bite, and watched as Doug gobbled down the rest of his half, knowing how much more _he_ would have been ruined if Doug _had_ been killed.

But he hadn't been.

By some grace of divinity, he was alive, and practically drooling all over himself as he eyed Dylas's remaining chunk of cookie, and cursing profusely around it when Dylas jammed the cookie into his big mouth.


End file.
